With Hearts of Gold
by Mestizaa
Summary: One moment of weakness, one fleeting moment of temporary insanity is all it takes for Carson and Hughes to give in. S5 AU. Carson/Hughes. Solid M.
1. Prologue

On October 31st 2014, VoyICJ gave me this prompt: _Josh Groban_ " _You're still you"; Chelsie... Sappy? Me? Nah, never ;)_

As it turns out, I am the world's worst prompt fulfiller. Somehow, I saw took "sappy" and twisted it into "smutty" and almost eight months later, _I'm still not finished_. But, since it's her birthday, I figured I should probably give her something ;) Updates will probably be sporadic, and I apologize in advance for that.

This is uncharted territory for me. Please let me know what you think of my tenure as Ship Captain.

A huge shoutout goes to deeedeee who turned this story from an incoherent mess into something more legible. Thank you for everything.

* * *

 ** _Prologue_**

"You're quiet tonight."

Mrs Hughes had been chattering away, asking him question only to receive a few grunts and noncommittal answers from the butler in return. He's at the chair nearest to the door, and she's pulled her desk chair close to him. Her knees are almost pressed up against his, a sliver of respectable distance between them. She brings the small glass of sherry to her lips and takes a small sip.

There's is no use in probing him further; he'll tell her when he's good and ready.

He swirls the amber liquid in his glass. "Is Mrs Patmore still upset with me?" he finally relents, refusing to make eye contact.

"Why do you ask?" she frowns and cradles the small glass in her lap. Mrs Patmore has a quick temper, and a sharp wit. "You would be the first to know if she were."

He sits back and stares intently into his glass and continues to swirl it around. "She told Lord Grantham that I'm heartless."

"Oh Mr Carson," she sighs and and takes his hand in hers and squeezes it lightly. "You know how she is; she always says things she doesn't mean when she's upset. Don't let that bring you down."

He seems to ponder this for a moment. "Do _you_ think I'm heartless?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Mr Carson," she scoffs. "You know I don't. Far from it, in fact."

"And if you were upset?" he asks. "Would I know?

"I should think so," she shrugs, eyes darting away from his. "Nobody knows me like you do."

He turns her hand over in his and starts drawing circles on her palm, seemingly taking her words into consideration.

"And if I upset you?" she asks, suddenly breathless. "Would I know?"

A hint of a smile. "Don't be ridiculous, Mrs Hughes," he says softly, echoing her words.

A few moments go by silently before she realizes he is still holding her hand and she finds that she is surprisingly comfortable with that. She has no idea what they are doing and she knows it's not right, but she can't find it in herself to break their connection. She can worry about whatever is appropriate in the morning.

She waits for the alarm bells to start ringing in her head; but they never come; it's a knock at the door that causes him to drop her hand.

The legs of her chair scrape against the hardwood when she turns to see who is still awake at this hour. Daisy is hovering at the door with a small library balanced in her arms.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Mrs Hughes, " says Daisy. "Is it alright if I use your sitting room? I have some math problems Miss Bunting asked me to complete."

"Oh of course, Daisy!" says Mrs Hughes as she stands. She decides to purposefully ignore Mr Carson's clenched jaw as they both stand. The girl's continuing education has been a contentious issue, and she's really not in the mood to argue with him right now. "Give me a moment to clear off the table."

"I really am sorry to interrupt," she says as she drops her books on the table. Mr Carson grimaces at the sound. "It's just that I promised Miss Bunting I would have this done by tomorrow."

Mrs Hughes takes Mr Carson's glass and places it on the tray next to hers. "A promise is a promise, Daisy," she reminds the girl. "We understand."

She smiles and opens one of her books. "I know you don't approve, Mr Carson, but-"

Carson frowns and interrupts her. "It's not that I don't approve, Daisy," he says. Two sets of eyes snap up to meet his.

"What?" Daisy is stunned. "But… before? In the kitchen, you said…"

"I know what I said, and I'm still not entirely convinced it's the best use of your time," he continues. "But it doesn't matter what I think. It's clear to me that you are going to pursue this with or without my approval. As long as your work performance doesn't suffer, it's fine by me."

Daisy blinks, astounded by his words. "Thank you, Mr Carson."

"We'll leave you to it then." He bows out of the room, with Mrs Hughes at his side. Their steps are in sync as they make their way down the dimly lit corridor.

"Thank you," she says eventually, breaking their comfortable silence, "for encouraging Daisy like that."

"I told her the truth, Mrs Hughes. Nothing more, nothing less."

"It still means a lot to her," she replies. "What made you change your mind?"

"Oh I don't know," he shakes his head and continues walking at his stately pace. "I suppose there are some things in life that are not worth fighting."

* * *

After a long, excruciating afternoon entertaining Sergeant Willis, they are both quite frazzled. Mrs Hughes is frazzled because she knows what his visit implies for Anna and Mr Bates. Mr Carson is frazzled because Sergeant Willis' visit ate up a huge chunk of his day and they are severely understaffed for dinner ; Mr Barrow is still away visiting his sick father, and as a result they are down to only one lonesome footman.

Mrs Hughes is in the corridor when she spots him rushing in her direction. Knowing full well that the middle of dinner is not a time one wants to encounter the flustered butler, she carefully steps to the side to let him pass. To her astonishment, he slows down and calls to her instead.

"A moment Mrs Hughes?"

She turns at the unexpected nearness of the voice, looks up to see Mr Carson hovering above her with a silver tray in his steady hands. She wants to take a step back, but she knows she can't possibly press herself any further into the wall.

She nods because she doesn't trust her voice to be steady.

"This has been bothering me all day. Has something happened? Has Sergeant Willis said something to upset you?"

It's happened before; but lately it's been happening more frequently. Her words keep abandoning her. Normally she would be armed with a witty retort, but then she makes the mistake of looking into his kind eyes, and her words no longer seem appropriate.

This isn't something she wants to talk about, least of all when he's rushing back to serve dinner and she's holding onto a secret that isn't hers to tell. In that moment, she decides it's best to feign confusion. She means to be assertive, to send him on his way, but he has systematically dismantled her defenses and she's left with nothing but a crack in her voice.

"I'm fine."

He doesn't say anything at first, and she knows it's because he's not sure how to proceed. "I trust that if you were to ever feel unsteady, you'd feel comfortable enough to tell me."

She gives him a small smile to assuage his concerns, and he visibly relaxes slightly. But a glimmer of concern still lingers. No matter how much she wants to accept the strength he is offering her, she is no position to share her burdens. She quickly brushes her fingers over his elbow, tries to show him that she appreciates everything he's doing because she doesn't trust herself to thank him with words that will do her hammering heart justice.

"Now is not the time to be sentimental, Mr Carson," she turns away from him, her eyes darting to her clasped hands in front of her. "You have a dinner to tend to."

If they had been somewhere else, anywhere that wasn't in the the vicinity of prying eyes, or if he wasn't holding the tray, perhaps he'd be able to reach down and give her hand a gentle squeeze. Perhaps she'd lift herself on her tiptoes and kiss his cheek.

But they're here now and he's returning to his duties and she's remembering what it's like to breathe again.


	2. The Fleeting Ones

That M-rating? Yeah... you should take note of that. Consider yourselves warned.

* * *

 _ **Chapter 1**_

 ** _The Fleeting Ones_**

They are not used to these fleeting moments of intimacy, the invasion of each other's personal space, the touching, the caring. This is all new. She has always cared, possibly more than she should, but that's just her nature to be compassionate. She's always been Carson's lighthouse, guiding him home when the seas got rough. Something has shifted and now that it's coming from him, she doesn't quite know what to do.

Instead of telling him to stop wallowing like she did in the past, she'll place a hand on his, gives it a gentle squeeze. And he, remarkably, won't pull away, doesn't gawk at the sentimentality of it all. These days, he'll turn his hand over and tangle his fingers in hers; he'll tell her what's on his mind without her having to pry.

There is never a catalyst. It's a slow reaction spanning years, eroding the walls they had erected around their hearts.

They're standing at the threshold of her sitting room and she is ready to close her door and bid Mr Carson goodnight. But then one look in his eyes and the words get caught in the lump in her throat that forms whenever he stands just a little too close.

He lifts a hand and ghosts a thumb across her cheek and the moment is teetering at the edge of intimacy. Much like every moment between them.

And she _knows_ that it would be in his nature to pull back. Past experience has shown that he does whenever they come to a moment like this. But right now, he's not pulling away; he's pulling her closer still. He's staring down at her and for once she can't read his expression. She lifts a hand and catches his fingers between hers. It is far too late for any rational thought to even exist, but she knows that she needs to keep him there. Just for a little while. Just until this debilitating feeling passes and her legs are no longer weak and feeling like jelly.

"Goodnight, Mrs Hughes" his deep voice rumbles through her and she inhales sharply, trying to calm her fluttering heart.

She doesn't know what causes her do it; she rises on the tips of her toes and lets her lips touch his pulse-point, then his chin, then the corner of his mouth. She feels the breath he had been holding shudder.

She should leave it at that. Enough lines have been crossed. She should bid him goodnight, should sashay down the hall and she really should go to bed.

Instead, she closes her eyes. She closes her eyes and lets her breath shake as his thumb moves to trace her lip. In this temporary insanity, she parts her lips slightly, and lets her tongue dart out and lick it.

Her madness must be catching because he kisses her, really kisses her against the doorframe, with his eyes closed and one leg pressed between hers.

At first, she yelps in surprise and lets her hand drop. Her heartbeat is hammering in her ears, and her stomach is doing somersaults and she has no idea what to do with her hands. When she feels him pull away, she grabs him by the lapel with one hand, pulls him back into her sitting room, and firmly shuts the door with the other.

And now, she's pressed up against the wooden door with his sturdy frame wrapped around her. And her hands are everywhere, running up and down his front, under his waistcoat, but over his white shirt. Wanting, needing to feel the man under the uniform.

She whimpers at the loss of contact when his lips leave hers, but then his lips are nipping at her earlobe, and sucking their way down her neck -

"Oh god," she gasps and immediately clasps a hand over her mouth, horrified at the words that betrayed her lust.

But he doesn't stop. Rather, he seems to be spurred on by it. He sucks on that spot again and swirls his tongue, and she's biting down on the palm of her hand to keep from moaning even louder. Her other hand seems to have gotten tangled in his hair in a desperate effort to keep him close.

He continues moving down until his lips meet her collarbone and she is so thankful for the lower necklines of today. Every part of her body is on fire; it's astounding to her how ready she is for him, how much she needs to feel him.

She manages to undo his waistcoat and tug his shirt free from his waistband and lets her hands run across his stomach. He groans at her touch and somehow, that sets her off even more. His lips are back on hers, his tongue dancing with hers again. Her fingers trace along his waist band, snake around to his back to pull him closer still.

He spins them around so fast that her keys jingle and break the spell. Mr Carson takes a mortified step back and blinks. His hair is mussed, his shirt is all over the place, his tie askew and he has a smudge of her lipstick on his mouth.

She immediately feels the cold seep in and she needs him to feel warm in this dark and lonely night. So she turns towards the door, and unhooks the ring of keys from her belt, easily finding the one she was looking for. She slips it in the hole and is satisfied when she hears it click.

"Mrs Hughes?" How she wishes he didn't call her that right now. "What are you doing?"

She carefully hangs her key ring around the door handle.

"Don't think," she turns to him and takes a careful step forward. She knows he can't resist her. Not like this, not ever. "Please don't regret this," she kisses him softly. "Don't make me regret this."

She knows she can't resist him either. One day, this will be their downfall.

But not tonight.

Tonight she'll clear off her table and let him perch her on her desk. He'll lift her skirts and accidentally rip her stockings when pulling down her silk drawers. She'll tug on his belt and undo his buttons.

She'll open her legs to him.

And then she'll give herself to him. Utterly and completely.

* * *

She hits her high and it's hard and it's fast and it's everything. But then she comes crashing down back to reality.

He's still buried inside of her, and she feels his ragged breath tickling the crook of her neck. She tightens her legs around him, not quite ready to let him go.

Mr Carson shifts and she takes her cue to loosen her grip on him, letting him slide out and pull up his trousers. He collapses in a vacant chair – his chair that is closest to the door.

She leans on one hand, and uses the other to push away a stray lock of hair that had escaped. She must be quite the picture. Her dress is still bunched up at her waist, her stockings are all torn up, her silk drawers hanging off of one ankle.

Suddenly feeling self-conscious with his eyes on her, she drops to her feet and pulls her drawers up, and smooths out any remaining kinks on her skirt.

Her heart is still racing, but now so is her mind.

"What are you thinking?" he asks.

She looks at him, startled at his sudden words. "I just-" she pauses. "You- what I mean-" Bites her lip and tilts her head. Smooths her skirt again. "I don't know" she sighs and throws her hands up in surrender. There is so much going through her mind she doesn't know where to begin. "What are you thinking?" she volleys his question back to him.

His fingers are dancing over his buttons, summoning the butler back. She doesn't dare look at him. "I'm thinking that our backs will be rather sore in the morning."

She laughs. Humourless and oh so relieved because they just might be able to move past this slip in judgement.

She steps over to the looking glass and pins back her loose hair. "I'll go to the kitchen and get some hot water bottles for tonight." She reaches for her keys and clips it back into place.

"Mrs Hughes," she winces at the name. "I don't regret this."

Her hand freezes over the door handle. "Neither do I, Mr Carson."

God help her, she doesn't.


	3. Tomorrow

Thank you dee for the beta work. Thank you everyone else for all your support.

* * *

 _ **Chapter 2**_

 _ **Tomorrow**_

Everything is fine the next day. She wakes up to the scullery maid's knock, rolls out of bed and is ready before the sun comes up. And then it's like nothing happened at all when she is sees Mr Carson methodically buttering his toast at the head of the breakfast table.

But then she feels a wisp of something brush up against her ankle, causing her to jump and knock her knee on the underside of table.

"Are you alright, Mrs Hughes?" Miss Baxter looks up in alarm from across the table.

Rubbing her knee beneath the table, she feigns normalcy. "I'm fine, Miss Baxter," she replies evenly. Miss Baxter shoots her a look that tells her she's a bad liar, but thankfully she lets it go.

She shoots Mr Carson a suspicious sidelong glance. The butler is the epitome of calm when he brings his teacup to his lips. With closed lips and kind sparkling eyes, he smiles at her. It's gone almost as quickly as it came, replaced by a slightly furrowed brown and questioning eyes.

The bells start ringing and the flurry of the household activity commences. Everybody who is needed is rushing to their feet and scampering down the stairs. She's left there utterly confused, with her mouth gaping open like a fish.

Did he just-?

No, she decides. He couldn't have.

* * *

As the day wears on, she becomes more sure that the incident in the servant's hall was an illusion brought on by her imagination. And then when the week wears on and nothing more is said between them, and her thoughts are occupied by everyone else's secrets, she begins to forget to think about her own.

It's not that she's avoiding him; she really just doesn't have the time with guests coming in and out all the time.

Sometimes she thinks she ought to tell someone, Mrs Patmore perhaps. But the way things are finally clicking back into place between the cook and butler, she thinks it's best to leave it be.

Besides, as the days wear on, it becomes clearer that the night in her sitting room was a fluke. A lapse in judgement. A moment of temporary insanity. And if nothing is happening then there's no real reason to talk to about it. It's not like she runs to Mrs Patmore every time she and Mr Carson share a cup of tea or exchange words in the corridor. And while Mrs Patmore is a dear friend, she is not privy to all the times Elsie catches herself thinking about him throughout the day, or all the times he does something that makes her breath catch.

These regular occurrences are not particularly noteworthy in any way.

* * *

He's exiting the boot room when she nearly torpedoes into him, "Does anyone know where the – oh Mr Carson." She freezes. "What are you doing in here?"

"I thought I would help our _stellar_ first footman since I have some time to spare before dinner," He holds up a pair of boots.

"I thought Mr Molesley had finally relinquished that title?"

"He has, but he is still our only footman." he sighs and she lifts an eyebrow in amusement. "May I ask what are you you doing here?"

Truth be told, he manages to chase away every coherent thought from her mind. "I've forgotten," she shakes her head. "Ah well, it probably wasn't all that important if I can't remember what it was," she shrugs, desperate to drop the subject.

"If you say so," he nods and she thinks she may have escaped any awkwardness. "Mrs Hughes?"

"Yes, Mr Carson?" she slowly turns back on her heel.

"Would you mind terribly if I-" he takes a breath and straightens his waistcoat. "-joined you for a glass of sherry this evening?"

She bites her lip, not able to match his gaze with hers. "Do you think that's wise?" she didn't mean for her voice to be so small. All her thoughts flee her mind when he looks at her like _that_. He's putting her off balance and she doesn't know what to do.

He takes a step forward. "I don't mean anything untoward," his voice sends shivers down her spine.

"Alright then," she nods sharply and starts to turn. "I expect you in my sitting room after dinner."

She catches his relieved look with a smile.

* * *

She had managed to forget how much she looked forward to their nightcaps. It's not as awkward or strange as she had feared. It's infinitely worse. Because they're alone and they're in her sitting room. And she can't help but think that maybe they shouldn't be in the midst of recreating the circumstances that led to their unprecedented loss of control just a few days ago.

Mrs Hughes blinks, and while her eyes are pointed in the butler's general direction, they are unfocused. Her head is suddenly full of images of him. Of them. On the desk she can see in the corner of her eye.

Now she has tangible evidence of how he feels under her hands, how she feels under his, of the way his mouth felt open and hot against hers. These memories are resurfacing, playing over and over in her mind like something out of a dream. The way he had thrust his hand up her skirt and his tongue in her mouth, lifting her, moving her easily, playing her body in a way she didn't know was possible.

"Mrs Hughes?"

She swallows. "Yes, Mr Carson?"

She wonders for a brief moment if she'll get to hear the speech he's probably been practicing in the mirror. He'll talk about impropriety and professionalism and say that in under no circumstance whatsoever can such a thing happen ever again.

He surprises her when he says neither of these things. Instead, he looks into his glass, swirls the amber liquid around and asks: "We're alright, aren't we?"

He looks as lost as she feels. And she now realizes that he's seeking her reassurance because this is uncharted territory; the waves are rough and he's feeling unsteady. But the logical part of her mind is nagging away at her. Because how on earth is she supposed to navigate them if she's never made these sorts of mistakes before? Why does she have to navigate them? Why doesn't he continue to keep them anchored at bay – safe and at home?

"Yes, I think so," she nods, trying to be firm. "Of course we're alright."

She hopes this isn't a lie.


	4. The Status Quo

_**Chapter 3**_

 _ **The Status Quo**_

Everything is just as it was – just as _before_. Somethings will always stay the same; Downstairs, Daisy laments about social injustice, Mr Barrow schemes, Molesley fumbles, Madge gossips and Miss Baxter watches it all with relieved and distant kind of amusement, only butting in when it stops being harmless. Upstairs, Lady Mary tries to fall in love again, Lady Edith tries to not let love consume her, and Mr Branson tries to belong.

And life goes on. The house continues to run, with some adjustments. That horrid little Sergeant shows up on occasion to pester the staff – question them on events that happened a year ago. Events that were best forgotten. Somethings don't change when they should. This entire ordeal should have been a distant memory by now.

Not everything is fine, but everything is mostly fine. Anna is crumbling under the stress of the unknown, Barrow is looking quite frightful these days, and to Mr Carson's horror, Daisy is turning political in the wake of Miss Bunting's coming departure.

The one bright spot in her days is when she sees Mrs Patmore and Mr Carson slowly reconciling over cups of tea and glasses of sherry. While she would never admit it aloud, Mrs Hughes is strangely grateful for Mrs Patmore contributions which fills their ubiquitous awkward silences.

"How did you meeting with Sergeant Willis go today, Mrs Patmore?" Mr Carson asks as Mrs Hughes hands him his cup of tea. No milk. Only sugar. She doesn't know how she manages to keep her hands steady when she's feeling so off balance. "That is, if you don't mind me asking..."

Mrs Hughes, catches his eye, sees the glimmer of uncertainty. He's still on very thin ice with the cook. She nods her head in encouragement, reassures him that there are no lines that were crossed.

"Actually, now that you've mentioned it, it was rather odd..." the cook tilts her head in thought.

Mrs Hughes sits down and blows on her tea. "How so?" It was just a cursory interview, much like the dreadful one she and Mr Carson had to endure. It shouldn't have been odd.

"First of all, I still don't understand why he felt the need to interview me about Mr Green's death. What did he think I knew?" she asks, getting more animated with each word. "And then he asks me to tell him 'the first thing that I remember about Mr Green.'"

Mr Carson chuckles. "What did he mean by that? Was he referring to the first thing you remember after everything else you've forgotten, or the first thing that simply comes to mind?"

"That was my issue was as well!" exclaims Mrs Patmore. "And instead of clarifying, he started getting all red-faced and agitated because he wasn't getting the information he was hoping for."

"And what information was he trying to get out of you?" Mrs Hughes takes a sip of her tea, hiding her true motivations behind her cup.

"How should I know?" she huffs. "Anyway, I _may_ have lost my temper and I _may_ have stormed out," the cook continues flippantly.

"Mrs Patmore!" Mr Carson's eyes widen. "You stormed out of an interview with Sergeant Willis?"

"Yes, Mr Carson, I did. Pay attention," she rolls her eyes. Mrs Hughes hides her amusement with a cough. "When I left, I found Anna in the corridor."

"You what?" the words were out of mouth before Mrs Hughes realized it.

"She tried to pretend that she just happened to be passing by, but it was clear that she had been trying to listen."

Mrs Hughes blinks, tries not to let that revelation rattle her. "That's odd."

"I agree," Mr Carson nods. "I suspect that Mr Green's death affected Anna more than any of had realized."

"Poor thing was rather fond of him when he first arrived. These recurring police visits can't be easy for her," Mrs Patmore adds.

Mrs Hughes clenches her jaw, tightens her grip around her teacup. Feels the anger and the _hatred_ she didn't know she was capable of feeling until that day she found Anna in her sitting room.

"She hasn't said anything to you, Mrs Hughes?" the butler asks.

Out of respect for Anna's wishes, Mrs Hughes will never reveal how much Anna has really said to her. She will never tell anyone of Mr Green's true nature. She will never tell anyone how she has occasionally doubted Mr Bates' innocence, and how even with these doubts, she will do everything in her power to ensure he remains a free man.

She doesn't lie, but there are things she doesn't say.

Mrs Hughes blows gently over her tea. "What could she possibly have to say?"

Mr Carson and Mrs Patmore mull this over, and thankfully, they seem to accept her vague answer.

* * *

This is the shortest chapter I've written so far. I promise that the next one will make up for it. Thanks for all the love :)


	5. Delirium Tremens

I'm going to be internetless until further notice. So while I have this very narrow window of opportunity, here you go! Please let me know what you think :)

* * *

 ** _Chapter 4_**

 ** _Delirium Tremens_**

If everything is fine, if _they're_ fine, why has she been avoiding going to the cellar for Mrs Patmore? Why has she been putting off such a simple task? Why does it feel like her heart is going to beat out of her chest as she stands outside the door?

Mrs Hughes doesn't often come down here; it's Mr Carson's domain, not hers. But the temperature controlled room is the perfect environment for dry curing prosciuttos, sausages, and other meats that Mrs Patmore currently requires.

When she is able to push the cedar door open without having to insert her key, she pauses and takes a deep breath. Only one other person has the key to the wine cellar, and he would never forget to lock it.

All she needs to do is get in, get the meats, and get out.

She has a clear vision of what the room should look like under the newly installed lights. The cedar shelving on the left side of the door will be occupied by full wine crates. The other brick shelves that line the edges of the room will have single bottles of wine resting on wooden supports. The meats that she needs are hanging from the ceiling in the back of the spacious room.

She steps through the arched door. Mr Carson is facing away from her. He's too busy searching the shelves for the perfect wine to notice her presence. The traditional brick arches with wooden supports are perfectly arranged. He reaches up, selects a bottle. He's turning to place it on the large tasting table occupying the middle of the room when he notices her.

"Mrs Hughes!" he greets her. "Are you looking for me?"

She shakes her head. "Not this time, Mr Carson. I'm just fetching Mrs Patmore some supplies." She scans the room for the step-stool. Locating it next to some empty wine crates in the corner, she picks it up purposefully.

"Would you like any help?" he asks, coming towards her.

"I'm fine, really, Mr Carson," she teases him lightly. "I'm perfectly capable of doing this."

She steps onto the stool, and it wobbles under her weight. He's behind her in an instant with his hands automatically flying to her waist to keep her steady.

Elsie Hughes has forgotten how to breathe, how to think.

Carson starts to pull away, but she stops him by placing hers on top of his.

"Mrs Hughes?" he questions softly. His breath tickles the crook of her neck.

She closes her eyes, and inhales deeply. Turning so she can face him, she places her hands on his shoulders, breath hitching as she slides down his front, back onto solid ground. Somehow, her arms had wrapped around his neck in her search for balance.

Mrs Hughes knows that everything about this is horribly inappropriate; yet she still feels physically unable to disengage her embrace. She feels unable to turn her face from his as he gazes up at her with an expression of uncertainty and longing. The housekeeper part of her brain cries out in protest, remembers exactly what had happened last time she kissed him. The temporary insanity. The loss of control. And then trying to delude herself into thinking that nothing had happened, and then finally getting to that place where nothing really had.

She doesn't know who made the first move. Does it even matter who did? Because once their lips are touching, everything comes together. Her frantic heart, her fingers sliding through his hair, and his mouth tasting better than she remembered.

When he pulls away from her, panic flows through her veins. Her eyes fly open. "Please..." she whispers. Please don't apologize. Please don't leave.

Please don't stop.

He returns to her after one gasping breath, plunging back into her mouth. Her hands fly to his back; her fingers convulsively knead the muscles there, revelling in his strength as he pins her against the table. She can't think anymore. Doesn't want to. All she can do is feel.

He breaks their fierce kisses, looks at her intently; she knows there are a thousand questions running through his mind. She's certain they're probably the same questions running through hers.

She quickly glances to the table behind her, and back to him again. They lock eyes, he raises a suggestive eyebrow, and she gives him a little nod and a brilliant smile in response. In all this madness, at least they're on the same page.

He leans down, and cups her bottom; she jumps up to help him, and in one fluid motion, her skirts are flying up around her, and she's perched on the edge of the table with her legs wrapped around her man.

She moans and she knows that she hasn't needed anyone so badly in her life. But then he stops kissing her. He pulls away, and her eyes fly open, crazy with need, not understanding why he had stopped. Why he had disentangled himself from her embrace. He pulls up a stool, starts kissing up the length of her leg, over her stocking, toward her knee, and then further still.

The penny drops. She knows _exactly_ what he's doing. Somehow, it both terrifies and thrills her to the core.

He stops his careful ministrations and looks up at her. "Say the word, and I'll stop."

" _Don't you dare_." A gasp escapes her as he unhooks her stockings and nips lightly at the flesh of her thigh. "I trust you," she finally manages. He hums softly against her leg, and pulls down her knickers. She lets out a shaky moan and falls back against the solid oak island.

Another kiss, and she moans helplessly, arching towards him. When his mouth falls not to her sex, but her quivering thighs for the longest moments, kissing, sucking, licking, loving her, she thinks this tortured pleasure will be the death of her. Part of her is perplexed as to his effect on her and the other part is thrilled at the speed that he's learning her body's secrets.

She hisses and tightens her grip on her bunched up skirts as he trails his hot tongue up and down the inside of her leg... so close... but never giving her what she's begging for. He moves to her other leg, swirls patterns, works his way upwards again, makes her arch her hips in desperation before repeating the same little strokes.

"Mr Carson, _please_ " she chokes out, trying to be commanding. She looks down at him, sees his head pressed between her legs, and she feels like she has never needed anything so badly in her life. "Taste me, please."

Finally, his lips brush gently against her core and they are hotter than the flames of the fire they're playing with. She jerks and moans involuntarily, doesn't believe that it's him, her Mr Carson, the Butler, tasting her. He backs off just a little to touch his tongue to her, strokes her lovingly. It is like climbing a mountain, approaching a volcano of pure hot light and at last, just when she thinks she can't take another second, she slowly tips over the edge of infinite pleasure, moaning and gasping, falling, as her body tenses and arches. Her thoughts, all her concentration, are on her muscles, on feeling the pressure build, of his tongue lavishing her clit, slowly, then quickly, moving faster than her frantic heart. She covers her mouth with the back of her hand, bites down around the base of her thumb, to keep from screaming in pleasure.

It is not a letting go of any kind. All conscious thought had been abandoned the moment she kissed him. It is an absolute building of pressure coming from deep within her, that spread like the heat of a wildfire. It is a force burning through her entire body, making her catch her breath, rending her limbs tense and immobile, flushing out to even her skin. An awareness of every muscle, a pressure so hard in her core – it is pleasure so focused, a tingling sensation that doesn't lower or stop.

It is quick, but it leaves her weak with its force. Her limbs tremble, and she finally remembers to breathe. Her head is still slowly spinning, but she soon becomes aware of the man nestled between her legs.. She props herself up with a trembling arm. He looks up at her, licks his lips, and she's feels that familiar knot in her stomach when she sees the primal look in his eyes.

How did he manage to unravel her so completely _when he was still fully dressed_?

He stands, and for a moment, she thinks this might be it, but then he moves up her body, wraps his arms around her and kisses her. She can taste herself on his lips.

He's mumbling against her mouth, yet she still somehow understands him "You are beautiful."

She rises back up on her hands, sits up fully, as he wraps his arms around her. He brings his lips to hers and gently kisses her again. Wrapping one arm around his neck, she runs the other down up arm, commanding him with her caress to stay with her. She brings that arm down his chest, pulls him closer by the hips and reaches up to meet another of his frantic kisses. While she nips at his lips, she slowly brings her gentle hands to his trousers and unhooks his braces, undoes the buttons on his trousers and pushes them down. She cups him with nothing but the thin layer of cotton left between them. He closes his eyes and lets out a strangled moan. Encouraged, she pushes down his shorts and frees him.

One of his arms loops around her thigh, pressing her open, while her hand winds around the bicep that leaned on the table supporting him. He pulls his hips back slowly, and thrusts. She arches her back at the contact. He thrusts again, this time harder and she gasps. As he continues his steady rhythm, her hair is falling from her loose hairpins, framing her cheeks.

"Oh god, Elsie."

He said her name, her _first_ name, like she didn't know it could be spoken. Something about the way he said it set her on fire. He has never used it until right now, has never used it out of this context when he's buried inside of her.

"Say it again," she demands as his hips convulse against hers. " _Say it_."

"Elsie..." and she moans, her hips roll against his. The steady buildup was coming back. Her name leaves his lips a few more times, before giving way to his groans and inability to say anything else. She focuses on his face, his eyes dark and glassy with desire and she is _so close_.

She recognizes this building tension inside and she's overwhelmed by the heat and slickness of their bodies moving together, and the rightness of everything that should be wrong. It was too much to bear. Her body, so recently touched by him was suddenly right there again.

"Elsie," he rasps. "Come with me."

And it feels like forever when she finally gives into the growing sense of urgency. She whimpers as the spasms hit once more, stronger than before and, she scrambles to get her arms around his neck. And she's being totally overcome by the sensations of them here together, sweaty limbs tangled together, gasping mouths...

And then she's free-falling out of a dream and crashing back to earth.

* * *

"What took you so long?" Mrs Patmore asks when the housekeeper finally appears. She tosses some dough onto the counter and reaches for the rolling pin. "I was about to send a search party."

"I am so sorry," Mrs Hughes calmly places the meats on the counter. "Something came up."

Mrs Patmore shoots Mrs Hughes a pointed glare as she roughly flattens out the dough. "You realize that if I had my own key, I wouldn't have to bother you every time I needed something?"

"Not this again," Mrs Hughes rolls her eyes and sighs dramatically. "You know that's not how it's done."

"And since when do you care how things are done?" Mrs Patmore accuses playfully. Mrs Hughes's stomach flips. "What happened to 'moving on with the times', Mrs Hughes?"

Mrs Hughes frowns. Shorter hemlines and more efficient technology is one thing. Whatever she's doing with Carson... that's something else entirely.

The cook frowns when she doesn't receive an immediate response, a flicker of concern crossing her brow. "Mrs Hughes?"

"I'm sorry, I just thought of something I need to do," she shakes her head and clears her jumbled thoughts. "You're not getting my keys," she tries to keep her tone light.

Mrs Patmore eyes her suspiciously, but doesn't push the issue. "You're lucky I'm too busy to argue about this."

Mrs Hughes raises an eyebrow as she turns to leave. "It's always best to quit while you're ahead."

She lets herself laugh as she hears Mrs Patmore protest behind her. "This is far from over, Mrs Hughes!"


	6. Still Her

_**Chapter 4**_

 ** _Still Her_** _ **  
**_

Later, when she is sore from her long day and her muscles are already anticipating the warm water her bath promises, she thinks that is not the first or last time that she thinks she might be getting too old for this hectic lifestyle. Maybe it is time to slow down. And it is only when she closes the bathroom door does she allow herself to accept that something was happening between her and Mr Carson.

She knows she is definitely too old to be making the sorts of mistakes she's been making. She remembers Ethel, Edna even, and every other young girl who threw their lives away for a night of passion. Girls who threw their lives away because they trusted a man to do right by them. For the first time, she almost understands.

Elsie Hughes is many things: a confidant, a friend, a mentor. Housekeeper. A woman.

Depending on the occasion, she can be encouraging, she can be strict. She'll gladly quiz Daisy if she wishes, but the moment the kettle starts singing or the water boils over, she'll chide the girl about her priorities. She'll dry the hallboys' tears when they're feeling particularly homesick, but when they're simply feeling sorry for themselves, she'll knock them out of it.

Elsie Hughes has been many things throughout her life. Even after all that was said and done, the woman standing in the bathroom is still her. Recent events do not define who she is.

" _Have you never made a mistake?_ " Ethel had asked her many years ago.

" _Not one this big."_

With a shake of the head, she clears her head and pushes the thought away. The tub, as always is remarkably clean, thanks to her stellar maids. Turning the old spigot, a stream of steady water starts to pour out, until finally, after a good two or three minutes, it starts to warm until it is steaming. Mrs Hughes runs a hand through it quickly and hisses when it is too warm. She fiddles with the tap until satisfied with the temperature before dropping the stopper into the water.

Stripping from her uniform, Elsie folds it neatly and places it and her the rest of her underthings on the countertop. She hisses when she slips a foot into the tub, her skin immediately turning pink. Once she is settled, her shoulders resting against the back rim of the tub and her feet against the other, she allows herself to finally relax.

Picking up a bar of soap, she lathers it between her hands, and then over her forearms. Mrs Hughes had always prided herself for her discipline, structure and self-regulation. But there was something about Charles Carson that destroyed all these qualities, left her unable to turn away every time their lips parted from a kiss. This afternoon had been no exception; she had been unable to control her reaction to him.

Hands now at her breasts, drawing lazy circles on her hardened nipples, she pinches gently. She imagines what would have happened had he tore open her corset and cupped her breast in his hand.

Elsie gasps.

She thinks of the way he nibbled down her neck, and when she runs the bar of soap down her front, to the apex of her thighs, she remembers how he touched her, how he knew just what to do set her on fire. She didn't know it could be like that.

Does he know what he does to her? How he chases away every logical thought with a simple touch?

Does she have that effect on him? Is everything that has happened -is happening- is it just a product of her lust-infused mind? No matter how hard she tries to ignore it, there's an atmosphere that continues to hover over them.

They can't go on like this. They're being careless. They'll be caught.

She sighs and drops the places the bar of soap on the edge of the tub, cups her hands in the water and rinses herself off.

But still, she wonders.

* * *

"We had sex."

Mr Carson's jaw is clenching, his face face bright red, his eyes focused on the decanter on his desk. Either he didn't hear her step into his office, or he's pretending very loudly that he didn't.

Mrs Hughes stays on task. It had taken days of gathering her nerve for her to finally confront him. "We need to talk about this."

She had hoped that her blunt comment would provoke a response from him. Even when he was yelling at her, it was better than being ignored by him. But he remains fixated on the decanter.

"You owe me a pair of stockings."

"Mrs Hughes," he hisses.

"What, Mr Carson?" She places her palms on his desk and leans forward. "Is this _inappropriate_?"

"Mrs Hughes!" his eyes finally snaps up to meet hers. "This is not-"

"We had sex," she interrupts him sharply. "Twice, I might add. It's a little late to be worrying about propriety."

For a moment, Mr Carson appeared to be at a total and complete loss of words. His expressions shifts from shock to something else entirely. His eyes darken and he keeps his eyes fixed on her.

This isn't their typical bickering. She knows how to push his buttons, and perhaps she has played that knowledge to her advantage just a little too much. Maybe she's gone too far.

"Why are you doing this?"

Why indeed. Why was she pushing him to talk about sex? Why is she goading him when she sees him gaze at her with charcoal eyes and she knows full-well what it means for a man to look at a woman like that?

"Because, Mr Carson," she licks her lips. "I want to see you lose control."


	7. White Rabbit

_**Chapter 5**_

 _ **White Rabbit  
**_

Maybe that was the wrong thing to say. His hands grip the armrests tightly, his eyes are closed shut and he's doing everything in his power to keep his breathing steady. The butler is coming apart at the seams of his uniform and maybe this is all so horribly wrong, but nothing has ever seemed more right.

She steps around his desk, lets her fingers trail along his forearm, gives him a chance to push her away.

"You _have_ seen me lose control. Twice, in fact," he turns in his swivel chair to finally face her, his voice raw with restraint, his eyes betraying the guilt he has been hiding. And for some reason she's so incredibly happy to hear him admit it out loud. To have this confirmation that it wasn't all in her head. That she wasn't the only one falling into madness.

He takes a ragged breath. Tries to explain himself. "I ravished you on your desk, _in the wine cellar_ , without... without…"

Her fingers have moved up his arms towards his collar. She leans down and plants a small kiss below his earlobe. Doesn't trust herself to speak.

His arm comes up, and for a minute she thinks she's gone too far. But instead of pushing her away, he's placing his hand on her hip, keeping her there as she plants feather light kisses along his jaw.

"Mrs Hughes," his eyes are closed again, his breathing uneven. He's desperately to be firm and failing miserably. "We've made no promises to each other, we're the head of staff, there are rules..." his breath catches when she starts nibbling on his earlobe.

He groans and tightens his grip on her hip.

She boldly takes a step closer still, brings her leg forward, nudges his legs open with her foot. Her fingers trace his pristine collar, continues down the length of his tie. Always perfectly in place. She wonders…

She quickly glances down, sees the outline of his arousal straining against the confines of his trousers. She feels a rush of temptation overcome her. To unravel the butler just as he's unraveled her.

"We can't keep doing this," he gulps. "It's wrong."

Her hands freeze in place. She reaches brings her hand back to his face, cups his cheek in her hand, forces him to look up at her. Forces him to see her.

"Do you regret the other times?" Despite being fully dressed, she has never felt more exposed than she does now when she's surrounded by him, hoping and waiting for him to be honest with her. She swallows her fears. "You can always stop me..."

This time, he reaches up and kisses her, pours everything he wants to say but is unable to do with words. Relief washes through her and she finds herself melting into him, clinging onto his lapel, pouring her truth into him with her kisses. He pulls away, rests his forehead gently against hers. No matter how much she fears the consequences of her wanton behaviour, she can't bring herself to lie. To him or to herself.

"I want you, Mr Carson," she whispers. "I want _this_." Oh lord, she knows she shouldn't be she _does_.

He groans and she makes a decision. She places soft kisses along his jawline, and her fingers start to trail down his front, carefully and deliberately undoing each button she encounters. She keeps going, kneels on the ground between his feet, plants kisses on his exposed flesh as she continues to worship his body.

His hands firmly gripping the armrests again. Not trusting himself to touch her.

Finally, she's at the band of his trousers. Plants feather lights kisses along his navel. Carefully undoes his belt. She looks up and meets his wild gaze with her own. "I want you to want me as much as I want you."

She unbuttons his pants -he's doing everything in his power to stay in control- slides the top of his boxers down and kisses and licks down his navel towards his curls. He lift himself up slightly, and she pulls his pants down enough to let him free. She feels her the heat on her cheeks, when she finally lets her gaze fall on his bulging member standing up for her. Because of her.

"If this is so wrong, Mr Carson," she curls her fingers around him and squeezes, "why does it feel _so right_?"

A strangled moan escapes his lips, and she feels her own arousal pooling at the sound of him coming undone.

In her mind she knows that this is wrong. Anybody can walk in. For a brief moment, she wonders hysterically if she remembered to lock the door.

She gives herself time to take him in with her eyes. She thinks about how he's been inside of her, how good it felt to surround him. But it was so hurried. So unexpected. Her skirts kept getting in the way. She hadn't really had a chance to fully appreciate him.

She runs her hand over him. Keeps her eyes fixed on him. The way his head lolls back, his eyes closed taking in the feeling. She wonders…

"You can always tell me to stop," she teases him lightly.

"Please don't..."

She drops her hand and he moans in protest. "Don't _what_?"

"Don't stop..." he begs. "Please, don't stop."

She kisses the tops of his thighs. Strokes his calf muscles through the pants that are wrapped around her. Watches in satisfaction as his hips buck involuntarily under her touch.

"Why Mr Carson?" she grabs his penis tightly, strokes his shaft with one hand. "Tell me why you don't want me to stop."

He's writhing under her ministrations, . "Because I want you. Oh god, Elsie, I want you so much."

She moves her head down so her lips are touching the inside of his thighs. She kisses all around them while still keeping eye contact with him. She stops for a moment, starts gently massaging his balls. She can see in his eyes how badly he wants her. She know the wait is killing him; and it's killing her too.

She wonders.

She moves her mouth and flicks her tongue on his tip, starts sucking on it, curls her tongue around him. She opens her mouth a little, lets her hot breath on the head of his cock, feels it twitch under in her hand.. All the while her eyes are on him. Always only on him as he starts to fall apart beneath her. His breathing is frantic, his moans erratic. She envelops his shaft in her mouth, tries to take him all in and his hand moves to the back of her head, trying to find something to hold onto.

"I'm... I'm going to.." his voice is strangled. His hips thrust involuntarily against her.

And she keeps sucking him hard, slides her hands to his balls, cups them gently as she continues to run her mouth up and down his shaft. Over and over. Faster and faster. Begging for him to release it all in her mouth. She needs him to fall apart, to lose his mind, to come with her name on his lips. She needs to know she's not the only one feeling this. That she is not only one affected by this mess they've created together.

And then finally, when he thinks he's ready to burst, he falls apart, falls over the edge with a stifled moan, and she catches him with her mouth, savours the the hot seed he's pouring into her.

And then it's over. Between his heavy, panting breaths, the perfect image of propriety and control threatens to return. The Mr Carson she knows so well runs a hand over his face and she tries not to take notice.

She lets go of him. Reaches into her pocket, pulls out a handkerchief, spits the cum she didn't quite manage to swallow. She runs the silk cloth over her lips, clears away any evidence of what just transpired.

There's an odd little moment at the end of it, after she's run the cloth over him, cleared away their mess, when she's ready to turn on her heel and exit. When he's standing again and his pants are back on, his shirt buttons done up, and all that's left of their tryst is his tie skewed a little too far to the left. His hands come up to her cheeks, frames her face; his eyes search hers intently for _something_.

She blinks. "Are you alright, Mr Carson?"

He kisses her and her heart lurches strangely with surprise.

"I'm sorry."

She frowns.

"We'll talk about this later, Mr Carson," her fingers instinctively fix his crooked tie, the only remaining evidence other than the handkerchief in her pocket. "We don't have much time now."

He nods and she takes a step back, smooths her skirt, unlocks the door, and quickly makes her escape.

Mrs Hughes retreats to the safety of her sitting room. She glares at a loitering Hallboy as she rushes past; she acknowledges Miss Baxter with a subtle nod of the head as she turns the corner.

She wonders if anyone realized she had vanished. She wonders if anybody _heard_. She collapses in her desk chair, lets her head fall into her hands.

She wonders why she can't leave well enough alone. Why everything that is wrong feels so god damned right. Why she feels like she's found something she didn't know was missing.

She knows she's going to fall if she keeps chasing rabbits.


	8. The Bells

**_Chapter 7  
_**

 ** _The Bells  
_**

After reading the same line half a dozen times, Carson finally concedes that no matter how much he wants to be productive, it's just not going to happen today. With a frustrated, he slams his ledger shut. Today is as good as any to polish some silver.

Carson ties on a green apron and carefully spreads out a collection of silverware in front of him. With a gentle hand, he rubs the silver polish over the spoon, removing the stains and tarnish. He removes the cloth and inspects the silverware under the light. He starts at the end, and traces a finger along the elaborate engravings along neck towards the bowl of the spoon, only stopping when sees his own gaze staring back at him.

This is his lot in life – to be so close to such beautiful objects but to never be able to call them his own. It never bothered him before. But lately...

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he places the spoon back down and picks up another.

His movements are familiar. Mechanical. He enjoys the routine, finds it relaxing, especially when everything familiar to him is spinning out of control.

These days, he occupies his thoughts with the Memorial business, of talks of monuments and ceremony arrangements. But then sometimes he'll find himself thinking of her. Remembering the feel of her pressed against him. Her legs wrapped around him. The taste of her, all of her.

At dinner, she's all poise and class and he's hit with pangs of guilt. Because everything they've done, whatever it is that they _are_ doing, it's _wrong_.

Yet he can't find it in himself stop.

Whenever Carson thinks he finally got it out of his head, he remembers his wild feelings reflected in her eyes.

" _I want you..."_ she had said.

His suddenly stops his ministrations and he's standing there with a tarnished spoon in his limp hand.

Now he _know_ _s_. Any remaining chance that he could continue to feign ignorance was destroyed the moment she uttered those words.

Still waters run deep. If they're not careful, they'll be pulled under.

Carson clears his thoughts with a sigh and continues with his duties. He doesn't want to think about it. To talk about it. To keep dancing between the thin line of something more and dissolving apart entirely.

* * *

By the time Sunday comes around, they still haven't talked about it. A steady parade of guests had kept them occupied, and provided the perfect excuse to avoid the conversation all together.

Mr Carson trails behind Mrs Hughes and Mrs Patmore as they walk to Church. She's not sure if it's because he feels uncomfortable around her or because he and Mrs Patmore are still not quite seeing eye to eye. When they arrive, she slides into the pew and settles in next to the cook, exhaling in relief and disappointment when Mr Carson sits on the far end of the pew in front of them. She watches as he moves away from her only to be obscured by the women's hats.

"Are you alright?" Mrs Patmore asks suddenly.

The knot in Elsie's stomach twists and she almost tells her then, almost blurts it out right there in the church pews in front of the entire village and God himself because it's _Mrs Patmore_ with her blue eyes looking up at her and waiting patiently for a response. Her lips open slightly and in her mind she starts formulating the sentence: "I'm having an affair with Mr Carson."

But then in her mind's eye she can see Mrs Patmore's horrified expression and the inevitable fallout and she can't let the words leave her lips.

If she tells Mrs Patmore, it's all going to be real. Very uncomfortably real. They will have to deal with the consequences instead of pretending they don't exist at all.

"I'm fine," she reassures her friend.

Mrs Patmore frowns a little. "If you're sure..."

Thankfully, she lets it go, just shrugs and focuses her attention on the starting processional. Mrs Hughes realizes that she probably shouldn't feel this grateful for the organ player.

* * *

Afterwards, while the Crawleys walk ahead of them and the rest of the staff trail behind, Mrs Hughes steals a quick glance at Mr Carson walking beside her.

A knot tightens in her stomach as she remembers how the vicar had spoken about the importance of honour and integrity. About resisting temptation. About everything they are meant to uphold.

The road stretches on; she can see the Abbey in the distance, the majestic building tiny on the horizon. The church bells chime behind them; she refuses to turn around and let them drag her back down. The solemn monotone notes hang in the air, reminding her of the mistakes, the danger, the wrongness of it all.

She turns her gaze back to the ground and the pavement stares back grey and cold.

They don't say anything. There is nothing left to say until they stop pretending.

* * *

That night, they finally stop skirting around the issue. The rest of the house had long since gone to sleep, and only they remained hovering in the stairwell whispering in hushed tones.

Carson follows her up the stairs, utterly exhausted, ready to turn in for the night. In these quiet moments in the shadows of the day, he forgets himself. He finds himself reaching for her, seeking her touch.

His hand slides up the handrail and finds hers. Mrs Hughes freezes at his unexpected touch and he stops short behind her. She is suddenly aware of his hot breath tickling the back of her neck and her heart in drumming in the silence.

It would be so easy to roll her head forward and grant him access. To let herself drown in his intoxicating kisses.

"What are we doing?" she breathes.

He hesitates. "I don't know."

She doesn't know what she wanted him to say, what she expected him to say. She closes her eyes, tries to quell her conflicting feelings.

Her job is everything. _Everything_ she has worked her entire life to accomplish. Without it, she would somehow become less. Mrs Hughes would cease to exist. He could take it all away.

They both know that it would go badly for both of them, but it would be worse for her. Because she has less transferable skills. Because her virtue has been lost. Because she is a woman.

Taking a deep breath, she untangles her hand and turns to face him. Her breath catches when she recognizes the storm in brewing in his eyes.

"Elsie, please tell me what you want."

 _Resign._ It's on the tip of her tongue, but then she realizes with horror what she was about to say. The audacity of it shocks her, makes her bite down on her bottom lip to keep if from spewing out. He makes it seem so deceptively simple, when everything is _so very complicated_. She can't possibly ask him to resign, not if he doesn't want to, not when his life is dictated by the ring of the gong.

She won't contemplate the possibility of retirement; she can't. It is nothing but a pipe dream.

So she averts her gaze to her clasped hands and tries to muster up some conviction. "We should stop." It's the reasonable thing to do.

"Yes, we should," he agrees.

"If anyone were to find out..." she closes her eyes, doesn't even want to contemplate that possibility.

"Even if they didn't..." Carson adds quietly. It cuts her heart to know exactly what he means. They believe in service and standards and honour. They are not too special, too good for the antiquated rules they are meant to uphold.

"The rules exist for a reason."

"That they do," he nods and she wishes he wouldn't. "We can't ignore them."

There's a part of him that wants her to argue, to persuade him that they can, of course they can. The world is changing around them, and maybe it's time that he accept it and change with it.

She nods and purses her lips tightly. "It would taint everything."

This is for the best. She knows this. She understands this. But right now, it _hurts._

She stands there for a moment longer, and Carson wonders if she is looking for some kind of closure, some kind of acknowledgement that they're choosing to end this aspect of... whatever this may be. He makes a decision, bridges the distance between them and presses his lips lightly to hers. It's the best kind of goodbye he's capable of at the moment. He is worried that if he tries to speak, he won't sound the least bit convincing.

When he pulls back to step away, her eyes are shimmering slightly, and then she leans in, gives his lips a quick brush of her own. Her own goodbye.

She pulls away, and he is tempted for a brief second to ask her if she is sure that this this what she wants. He wonders if she would rather stop with this pretense, maybe even marry and retire. But she takes a step back and turns around, and his mad thoughts vanish as quickly as they had come.

She made her decision and he agreed. And now she's walking away.


End file.
